


These Hands Were Made for Loving

by haraya



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Competent Cullen, Confident Cullen, F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 10:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5537339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haraya/pseuds/haraya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Evelyn's turn to be embarrassed when her noble upbringing results in her having certain life skills that leave a lot to be desired. It's a good thing Cullen's got her covered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Hands Were Made for Loving

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece for [Clever Fingers, Eager Hands](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5439725)

There's a gaggle of children that has sprung up around Evelyn as the Inquisition makes the long trek to Skyhold.   
  
She finds she didn't mind; their laughter and easy company relax her as she leads from the front, and it's such a new experience, having so many children around. She finds she rather likes it.   
  
Until one of the littlest children starts crying, and she's at an utter loss on what to do. It's not like she's ever been expected to manage children. That was what _servants_ were for.   
  
She picks up the crying child and holds it awkwardly to her chest. "Ah," she says, trying to be comforting. "Please don't cry. Er."  
  
It's not working, and her inner circle's suggestions aren't helping.   
  
"Don't you need to support its head or something?" Bull asks. "I thought little humans were all fragile like that. Neck might go _snap_ like a twig--"  
  
"No, no," Blackwall says. "I think that's only for babies. Here." He takes the child from Evelyn, holding it up from the armpits as he hoists it into the air, making silly faces.   
  
Or, they _ought_ to have been silly. Blackwall looks downright menacing, with his weathered skin and wild facial hair, and child only cries harder. He quickly passes it off to Cassandra.   
  
The warrior woman holds the child an awkward distance away, looking for all the world like someone had asked her to dance the Remigold when she'd expected to go dragon hunting. She takes one look at the bawling little thing before she says, resolutely, "No," and foists it back into Evelyn's waiting arms.   
  
"Erm," she says, patting the child awkwardly on the back as she rests it against her. "Don't cry, don't cry, please--"  
  
There's a soft sigh and a quiet clank of armor before leather-gloved hands take the child from her.   
  
Cullen balances the child on his hip, his big hands surprisingly gentle on the small body. He's making soft shushing noises as he keeps a bounce in his step to lull the little one. He looks a little comical, bouncing the way he does as they forge ever onward through the Frostbacks, but it works, as the child quiets within half a minute from settling in Cullen's arms, and soon it's burbling sleepily into the fur collar against his neck.   
  
He's smiling gently at the little bundle in his arms, and the expression looks so utterly foreign on his perpetually-scowling warrior's face, but Evelyn thinks she wouldn't mind seeing it more often.   
  
He notices the stares, and he flushes, his hands tightening ever so slightly around the little one in an unconscious protective instinct. "What?"  
  
The situation is such that even Leliana - secretive, stoic Leliana - lets slip a note of surprise in her voice. "Bless my heart," she drawls. "The Commander can actually make people _stop_ crying instead of reducing them to tears."  
  
"What? I used to help take care of my little sister," he says defensively. "What's wrong with that?"  
  
"Absolutely nothing," Evelyn cuts in, squeezing his arm and smiling up at him. "Good work, Commander."  
  
He flushes at her praise. "I-- Thank you, Herald."  
  
She smiles, her heartbeat quickening, and it's not entirely from the brisk pace she sets as they search for a place to call home.   
  
\---  
  
_Thwack!_  
  
"Ngk." Evelyn stares at the offending axe that had wedged itself halfway into a piece of (what would be, _eventually_ ) firewood, gripping the handle as though it would come to its senses any moment and smoothly slide out as it ought to have done.   
  
But no, the axe is well and truly stuck, and she sighs and runs her hands through her hair in frustration.   
  
The reconstruction of Skyhold is well underway, except that she, more often than not, simply gets underfoot as the men transport wood and bricks and such. It had all been rather embarrassing, with the soldiers and various scouts immediately taking whatever load she had on her hands the moment she'd so much as picked up a brick. Eventually she'd gotten the hint, and had relegated herself to chopping firewood near the stables, far from any place where she could have caused an accident.   
  
It is, she convinces herself, just as important as any other work. None of them could function properly if their fingers and toes were falling off from the cold.   
  
Except she couldn't even seem to manage _that much_. She frowns once more at the offending axe, her hands on her hips.  
  
"The wood's not going to chop itself, you know," comes a voice.   
  
She looks up to see Cullen leaning on the stable wall, staring amusedly at her.   
  
The first thing she says is: "You're out of your armor."  
  
He raises a brow. "Am I? I could've sworn I was wearing it a moment ago. Where could it have gone off to, do you think?"  
  
She resists the urge to stick her tongue out childishly, crossing her arms over her chest. He laughs at her expression and crosses over to the chopping block. "Of course I'm not wearing armor," he says. "Are you aware how difficult it is to lug around bricks and wooden planks in heavy plate, Inquisitor?"   
  
_"No,"_ she says, a note of petulance creeping in her voice. "Because nobody will let me get within five meters of the reconstruction effort."  
  
"Upset about that, are you? I _am_ sorry." He grins, looking absolutely _not_ sorry.   
  
"You?" she asks, confused.   
  
He grips the handle of the axe and pulls it out easily with a small tug. "I may have, er, _strongly suggested_ to the soldiers not to let you do any manual labor." He flushes as he sets the axe down.   
  
"Of all the cheek!" Evelyn cries indignantly. Cullen merely laughs, loud, which only makes her flush harder.   
  
" _Cheek,_ she says," Cullen mutters to himself, before smiling at her and saying, teasingly: "You are _such_ a noble," as he picks up the half-chopped wood and splits it easily with his bare hands.   
  
Okay, that was kind of hot, but--  
  
"You think my noblewoman's constitution can't handle it, do you?" she asks, irritated, as he places a new piece of wood on the block and neatly chops it in half.   
  
He snorts. "Of course not." At her glare, he amends, "Well, maybe a little-- but only just!" he says, flinching at her fuming expression. "I simply think that you, as the leader of the Inquisition, needn't bother with such things. And our soldiers more than agree."  
  
" _I_ don't," she retorts. "As leader of the Inquisition, it's my job to ensure that everything goes well. I'm not going to sit on my ass doing nothing while everyone breaks their back doing real work."  
  
He glances at her, confused, as he continues to chop the firewood. Maker, he's gotten through a quarter of the pile in the time it took her to chop half a piece. "You _have_ done real work," he says. "You've worked harder than any of us."  
  
"But you still think I oughtn't be allowed to do manual labor," she accuses him. " _Maker,_ you won't even let me chop firewood now!"  
  
"It's not that I think you couldn't," he says, not meeting her gaze. He smirks a little. "Alright, maybe I don't trust you to chop firewood without hurting yourself, but--" He laughs when she lets out an indignant sound of protest. "But this is something I-- _we_ can do. You've never failed us before. Let us take care of reconstruction. Give the rest of the Inquisition a chance to prove that _we_ won't fail _you_."  
  
He glances up at her shyly.   
  
Ah, _damn._  
  
Her heart starts to race double time again, and her voice is barely more than a whisper when she says: "I don't think you could."  
  
Cullen doesn't answer, merely smiles softly to himself as he continues to chop firewood. She watches his big, weathered hands, firm and sure as he works, and tries very, _very_ hard not to think about how his calloused grip would feel on her soft, sheltered skin.   
  
\---   
  
Evelyn emerges from the tent in the early morning light. Cullen's already up, sitting by the banked remains of the fire, hunched over something in his lap.   
  
She sits down beside him and rests her head on his shoulder as she closes her eyes, lulled by the gentle lapping of the lake on the shore, the soft regularity of his breathing, and the quiet sound of his knife as he works.   
  
Sleepy as she is, it's a while before she opens her eyes again to peer curiously at his lap. "What are you doing?" she murmurs.   
  
Cullen smiles, peering at her from the corner of his eye as his knife keeps moving in his hands. Slowly, the little block of wood in his hands starts to take shape.   
  
"It's something my father taught me when I was little," he says, still carving. "Branson - my brother - was better at it, but it's still something I like to do to while away time or help me relax."  
  
She hums, watching the way he works, his deft hands sure on the knife as a familiar shape emerges from the wood.   
  
"It's a mabari!" she breathes delightedly, marveling at the tiny dog figure as Cullen turns it over in his long fingers.   
  
He laughs softly before pressing the wooden figure into her hands. "Here," he says. "It's yours."  
  
"You made this for me?" she asks, tracing the shape of the mabari with slender fingers. At his blushing nod, she smiles and kisses his cheek. "Thank you. You're so sweet."  
  
Cullen tries to hide his smile as his arm comes up around her. "It's not exactly fine jewelry or anything. I just... wanted to give you something to remind you of me."  
  
"You've given me the coin already." She leans closer into his side. "And you're always in my thoughts. I don't need reminders."  
  
He huffs a laugh and kisses the top of her head. "It doesn't hurt to make sure, just in case."  
  
She hums, content in his arms, before she asks: "Can you teach me? I want to give you something too."  
  
Cullen smiles as he runs his fingers through her hair. "I don't need reminders, either," he says softly.   
  
"Just making sure," she answers teasingly. Cullen laughs before he reaches for a new block of wood and shows her how to grip the knife.   
  
"Like so," he says. "Just slide it along slowly. And be careful, you might--"  
  
"Ow!"  
  
"--cut yourself." Cullen sighs, smiling exasperatedly, and takes the knife from her before he gently grasps her hand to examine it. "It's not that deep," he pronounces, before he wraps his lips around the cut on her finger and sucks the wound gently. When it stops bleeding, he pulls away, a small smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. "Better?" he asks.   
  
"Much," she says, placing a small kiss on his mouth before taking the knife again.   
  
Her carving is nowhere near as fine as Cullen's, or even as neat: the ears are lopsided and the eyes aren't the same height and the base of the figure remains rough and uncarved, but it looks _passably_ like a horse's head, and she holds it up for him to see.   
  
"It's a horse," she announces proudly. "Like on the Trevelyan crest."  
  
He smiles a little at her enthusiasm before he takes her little wooden offering. "I see that," he says, amused, before he kisses her, still smiling against her mouth. "Thank you," he says when they pull apart. "I'll be sure to treasure it."  
  
She smiles brightly at him before she pulls him down for another kiss, and she doesn't even mind the ache of the hundred tiny cuts on her fingers when she cards them through his hair.   
  
\---  
  
Cullen traces a finger across her bare stomach as she struggles to catch her breath. It's especially difficult when he's looking at her the way he is, like she's all the stars and the moon combined, like she's the only good thing to ever wander into his life.   
  
He cocks his head curiously as he traces a finger up and down, up and down, his sword-calloused touch scratching pleasantly on her skin. "Does it really not bother you?" he asks.   
  
"Does what not bother me?" she asks in reply, still a little breathless.   
  
"My hands," he says, flushing adorably. "I'm aware they're not exactly... a gentleman's hands."  
  
How he thinks she could ever be dissatisfied with his hands, especially given that he's brought her to pleasure with just his fingers only a few minutes before, she'll never guess. She frowns. " _You're_ a gentleman," she says. "You are, quite possibly, the most infuriatingly courteous man I know. Your hands are a gentleman's hands by virtue of your being a gentleman."  
  
He laughs quietly, still tracing patterns on her skin. "Point. And that's very flattering, thank you." She arches her brow in a way that says, _See? I told you so_. "But I meant _gentleman_ as in, a man of leisure."  
  
"I don't see how this is a problem," she says. "I like your hands just as they are, Cullen. I quite envy them, in fact."  
  
He raises an eyebrow. "Truly?"  
  
"Yes." She sits up and shows him her own hands, the soft green light of the anchor illuminating the fresh blisters that mar the delicate skin on her palms and fingers. "Look. I got these at Adamant." He takes her hands gently in his own, rubbing soothing circles around the aching flesh. "I-- I've never--" she cuts herself off as she takes a shuddering breath.   
  
"Evelyn?" he asks worriedly.   
  
_"I've never killed so many people before,"_ she blurts out. "Not all at once, anyway. There were-- there were _so many_ at Adamant. My hands started to hurt from fighting even before I fell into the Fade. I'm not used to fighting as long as we did. I-- it's weak, I know, but--"  
  
"It's not," Cullen interrupts her. "So your hands aren't made for warfare. That's not a bad thing." He smiles softly at her in the dim light. "I rather wish there was a need for more people with hands like yours."  
  
_"We're at war,"_ she protests. "What are they good for if not for fighting?"  
  
"For peace," Cullen says. "For gentleness. For loving. We won't always be at war. Hands like mine won't always be in demand. When all this is over, it'll be hands like yours that make the world anew."  
  
It's so easy to believe him when he's so earnest, so _honest_. He's seen the worst the world has to offer and yet he still trusts in the goodness of it, and it's so easy to let herself fall under the sway of his faith.   
  
She smiles and ducks her head as warmth suffuses her chest. "We'll still need hands like yours, after," she says, then looks up cheekily at him. "To chop firewood."  
  
He laughs and gathers her up in his arms, burying his face in her hair as his warrior's hands press against her back, warm and strong and loving.   
  
\---  
  
The moment the door to the main hall closes she's already pinning him back against the door as she attacks his neck with a flurry of kisses. Cullen chuckles at her frantic movements.   
  
"Correct me if I'm wrong," he says, his big hands tightening around her waist as she presses her lips to his pulse point. "But there's-- ah-- a perfectly serviceable bed up in your quarters for this kind of thing, isn't there?"  
  
She hums against his neck, the tip of her nose brushing a line down his heated skin. "We'll get there," she says, smiling. "But there's a perfectly empty corner here away from prying eyes, and, seeing as it's over and Corypheus is gone for good, I think it's about time I put my _peacemaker's_ hands to good use, don't you?" Already her hands are sliding down his armored chest, making their way further down until she's tugging at the laces of his breeches.   
  
"Not that I'm _complaining,_ per se," Cullen says with a breathless hitch as her fingers loosen the stays on his trousers. "But here? Really? Just outside the main hall? There are people who might hear."  
  
_"I_ can be quiet. You underestimate how good I am at this sort of thing. Growing up around all those empty hallways are good for something, you know."  
  
"Like what?" Cullen asks breathlessly as her fingers finish working on the laces and his breeches slip lower on his waist.  
  
"Practice." She smiles wickedly up at him.   
  
"For _what?"_  
  
"This." She slips one delicate hand into his trousers and under his smalls and cups his already-hardening length.   
  
"Maker!" Cullen cries out as she begins to stroke him teasingly, her fingers impossibly soft as she drags them along his cock.   
  
Her other hand snakes to the back of his head and she kisses him, her mouth hot and frantic on his. "Do try to be a little more quiet, Cullen," she says between kisses. "Nobles didn't carry on extended secret trysts by screaming their pleasure for everyone to hear."  
  
Cullen bites back a groan as her thumb brushes against the crown of his cock. Evelyn watches in fascination as he actually _whimpers_ , his hips bucking into her hand. That _she_ could do this to him, that she could reduce him to a gasping mess with just her hand fills her with a heady rush.   
  
He pulls her up for a heated kiss, her breasts pressing against his armor, and she moans into his mouth as she continues to work him below.   
  
When Cullen breaks away to press kisses down her jaw and neck, she moves her other hand to cup his balls. He presses his face against her shoulder to muffle a groan as he thrusts into her hand at a frantic pace. With a shudder and a sigh he comes undone, his hips bucking sharply as she wrings every last drop of his desire from him.   
  
Then, without missing a beat, she starts to pat around his pockets even as he slumps against the door to catch his breath. She pulls out his handkerchief and quickly cleans up her fingers and his cock before methodically tucking him back into his trousers and lacing them back up.   
  
Cullen watches her movements with an incredulous look on his face, still breathing raggedly.   
  
"Right," she says, calm as can be. "We're decent. We could head back to the party if you'd like. Josephine might be looking for us--"  
  
Cullen growls as he catches her hand on the latch.   
  
"I take it that's a no, then?" she says, nonplussed.   
  
Cullen smirks, the scar on his lip stretching devilishly, before he deftly picks her up and throws her over his shoulder, ignoring her indignant yelp as he starts up the stairs.   
  
"Noble trysts are all well and good," he says. "But it seems to me that you're in need of some good old-fashioned Fereldan loving."  
  
She laughs. "You're positively barbaric," she teases him even as she bounces slightly in his grip. He grins wickedly at her.  
  
"Oh, you have no idea."

**Author's Note:**

> Not saying that Dorky!Cullen isn't completely adorable, but Competent!Cullen is sexy af


End file.
